


A true friend walks in when the rest of the world has walked out

by fandomstakeoveryourlife



Series: Marvel Support Group AU [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Clint Barton, Bipolar Disorder, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Middle School, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tony Stark Is Not Helping, Tony Stark is kind of an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27474916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomstakeoveryourlife/pseuds/fandomstakeoveryourlife
Summary: It wasn't like he wasn't trying; things just got fucking hard sometimes, okay?or, 5 Times James Lost His Shit And 1 Time He Didn't
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Marvel Support Group AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493894
Kudos: 10





	A true friend walks in when the rest of the world has walked out

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so a few things:  
> \- first, I apologise I've take so long to update this series, but I'm planning on updating it more regularly now because I'm actually feeling  
> kinda motivated to finish it  
> \- second, if you haven't read the first fic in this Support Group AU, it isn't a necessity, however it would more than likely help you understand some backstory involving Clint and more of his relationship with James  
> \- third, I feel like I kind of rushed the ending, so I apologise about that in advance. Hopefully future ones will be less like this
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! x

**1**

When you're a kid, everyone looks like your parent and staring up at the man looming above him, who had dark hair and a beard just like his dad, James felt the familiar tell-tale coldness pooling in the depths of his stomach. He was old enough now, smart enough, to know this man wasn't his father, but the way he was standing with his long-fingered hands tucked tightly under his arms, leaning his weight tensely on one leg was just the wrong side of recognisable for James. The sour taste of nausea that he'd gotten to know uncomfortably well over the years had coated his tongue by now and had begun to creep down his throat, twisting his stomach into a sickening ache. Fidgeting restlessly in his seat, James wondered how much longer they were going to have to wait.

"Mom." It came out barely above a whisper and he tugged at her sweater sleeve to compensate. She brushed him away gently but firmly with a soft "hm" and a flick of her fingers. His insides felt like worms and he squirmed again, eyes darting back to the man, who was looking disapprovingly at his watch, brows drawn in together in a darkening frown. James gnawed anxiously on a hangnail, letting the sharp tugs of needle-like pain keep him rooted in the present. The last thing he wanted was to start drifting away like a balloon, again: he hated that feeling.

"James." Her tone was hushed but urgent, as if she was correcting his behaviour but didn't want to go as far as telling him off. Ignoring her, he stared fixed at a spot on the floor, just in front of him, trying to block out the background noise that clawed at his ears. 

A sudden tight grip on his shoulder grounded him in a way that made the strangling nausea surge to an almost suffocating strength. With a shaky draw of breath, he glanced sideways at his mom, who was watching him with a tight look of concern; her lips pressed into a hard white slit in her exhausted face. She gave him a little shake and sighed softly.

"Stop that silliness, now." Her voice was as tired as her expression: ragged and breathless. James bit his lip and willed the tears from welling up in his eyes. He shouldn't cry; daddy said real men didn't cry. Ever.

"That man looks like daddy." It was spilling from his lips before he could stop it; the whispered tone of his voice more like a mouse than he was willing to admit. 

His mom hmmed softly in agree, but reached over and took his small hand into her own - one lined with criss-crossing fading scratches. James sat quietly after that, hoping that maybe if he was extra well-behaved, she let him sit on her lap, like when he was little. He used to feel safe like that.

**2**

James was 10 when his father finally left for good. It had been after the time his dad had managed to break his nose shoving him up the stairs; he'd been scurrying up them, but apparently not fast enough for his dad, who had pushed him hard from behind, causing him to nose dive the stained carpet-covered stairwell. It hadn't even been the worst thing his dad had done to him, but it seemed to have been the straw that broke the camels back. Honestly, James hadn't got to see it all unfold, because he'd been huddled in one of the kitchen cabinets, a wad of blood-sodden tissues pressed against his aching nose, with his younger sister curled up against his stomach. In that moment, they both seemed to forget that Rebecca was 7 and probably too big to be cuddling up to her older brother as she was. 

In the front hall, they could hear their mom shrieking in a way that was quite foreign; she didn't sound frightened or defensive. She was on the attack, like a lioness fighting to protect her cubs. In that moment, James had somehow felt terrified, proud and relieved all at once; the burn of adrenaline-fueled anxiety was still pounding through his veins, making his heart thud in an uncomfortably fast and uneven way. Yet, the feeling of pride had wormed its way in through the fear: pride for his mom, who was finally standing up for herself and her children, sending that asshole away for good. And that's where the sense of relief came in, that he was at last free from his tormentor. 

* * * *

Steve was James' best friend, even though they were almost polar opposites: James was tall for his age while Steve was the same height as the average 4th grader and just as weedy, James had dark hair and matching eyes unlike Steve who's face featured crystal blue eyes and goldish blonde hair, James was easily troubled by adult males but Steve didn't seem bothered by them at all - in fact he almost seemed to enjoy talking to them. It was kind of funny, that one, because it always seemed to be James who was standing up for Steve in the schoolyard and the alleys by the arcade centres when the other kids were picking on him. Yet, as soon as pretty much any man appeared, James' stomach would immediately knot up and his palms would clam-over; everything in his being just seemed to scream at him to _getawaygetawaygetaway._ But then, as soon as he'd slipped around the corner, with his heart racing and breath burning his throat raw, the guilt would set in and some voice in the back of his mind just wouldn't shut up _cowardcowardcoward._

The memory of his mom screaming ferociously at his father came spilling back into his mind like sour milk, every time.

James was pretty sure Steve known how his father had treated him, because (back before his mom had kicked his dad out) every time he'd gotten a bruise - no matter where it was - Steve would stare at it with a hate-filled glare, as if he was hoping that if he did so hard enough, it would eventually inflict pain back upon the causer of the bruise. Several times, James had found himself stammering out half-formed explanations (it had always been harder to lie to his best friend) but he gave up doing that after the time he'd come into school with a plaster-cast wound 'round his wrist and Steve had given him a stiff look that just said _I know_. 

Steve may have had the strength of a yellowed plant leaf, but he sure as hell wasn't dumb. 

On the other hand, Steve's parents didn't quite seem to have caught wind of what had been going on in the Barnes household, which, James guessed, wasn't really their fault. And anyway, it had been his fault for not going to the loo before he went to bed that night. He's been staying over at the Rogers' for a sleepover with Steve, which had all been fine until he'd woken up to uncomfortably sticky pyjama pants and a cold soggy mattress beneath him. Shaking his friend awake, he'd hissed about needing cleaning supplies and that he'd be happy to take the sheets home to wash, but Steve being Steve had been insistent that all was fine and went to go talk to his parents.

Joseph Rogers came striding into the room with a stern look on his face, his moustache twitching a little; he was a kind man, but also a firm one, with strong beliefs that all males should be as masculine as possible with not even the slightest hint at weakness. Standing and peering over the damp bedclothes, he tsked loudly and fixed his line of sight upon James, who was shivering lightly in his wet pyjamas, which were quickly becoming uncomfortably cold.

"Really, James. You're ten years old. Should you really still be wetting the bed at this age?" The disappointment in his tone sent waves of nauseating anxiety cascading through James and he swallowed hard against the sour taint rising in the back of his throat. A tremor ran through him. 

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm really, really sorry. I should've gone before bed." 

"Yes. Yes, you should have done. And for goodness sake, speak up, boy. You're almost man; act like one." 

Squeezing his eyes shut, James missed Steve whispering urgently to his dad to _stop it._

Apparently brushing off his son, Joseph Rogers rolled his eyes in growing irritation. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, James. Respect your elders." 

"Shut up. _Shut up. Shut up!"_ James' chest heaved with exigency as blood pounded in his ears like the beating of a war drum. Almost immediately, in the suddenly heavy silence of the room, tears welled in his eyes and he ran out, pushing past both his best friend and Joseph Rogers, followed by Steve's mother, Sarah, who'd appeared from her bedroom to see what all the raised voices were about. 

For the next twenty minutes, James sat huddled into a tight ball in the bottom cabinet of a kitchen cupboard, sobbing as quietly as he could into his urine-reeking pyjama bottoms. That is, until Sarah found him and managed to coax him out, saying his mom was here to pick him up and that she'd sought the sheets and it was all okay. 

He wasn't entirely sure why, but the incident was never mentioned again by anyone involved, but the next few times he went over to Steve's after that, he'd occasionally catch either Joseph or Sarah giving him this long, sort of sad, look, that he could never quite figure out.

**3**

To say Middle School was more stressful than Elementary School was a severe understatement. James' Elementary School had been fairly small with limited class sizes and quiet orderly hallways; there had been few enough kids in his year group that he'd at least known all their names. On the other hand, his new middle school seemed simply _monstrous._ The classes were a crowd, crammed into rooms like size 7 feet into size 4 shoes. The hallways were bustling, and so fucking _loud._ It made his heart race like a frightened rabbits.

One of the limited saving graces was that Steve had gotten into the same school (not that there had been any doubt that he would, but sometimes James worried). Even though his best friend couldn't exactly protect him from the pulsating roar of the hallways, it was at least nice to have someone there with him. Someone he knew could calm him down if needs be. In some respects, James felt kinda guilty in regards to Steve, whom always stood up for him and was picked on (bullied even) worse than when they'd been in elementary school - not that he'd ever admit that to Steve. Though, sometimes they just picked on Steve for being Steve: for his short stature, long nose and awkward bumbling presence. Other times, it was for his good grades or sickly health. 

It was weird, to James, that other kids didn't feel the need to necessarily take the piss out of him, and instead turn it on his best friend. Maybe, he thought, they had just heard rumours from his elementary schoolmates about the few times he'd flipped out in class. The worst time had been when they'd had some male visitor and the teacher hadn't let him leave - that is until he'd lost it, shoved the table and knocked it over, then tore out of the room, his breath seizing in his throat. Other than that, he'd just acted out a bit: usually when there was an adult male in the room. They always made him uncomfortable; as soon as they entered the room the chatter would start in the back of his head and the tidal wave of anxiety would soon follow. To him, the obvious solution had been to do something he wasn't supposed to so he could get sent out and get away from the _dangerdangerdanger._

The teachers and his mom never quite saw it that way. 

_Disruptive,_ they said. 

_ADHD?_ They asked.

 _Why can't you just behave?_ They said.

His mom was one he never understood. James may have been only eleven, but he wasn't dumb. He saw the permanent inky shadows under her eyes that looked just a little too much like those familiar bruises for him. He saw the way her hands would shake and clutch at each other whenever a man got just a bit too close. He saw how she would flinch and squeeze her eyes tight-shut whenever someone moved a little too fast or gestured just slightly wrong. And every time, it made his stomach sink and his mouth sour. 

But somehow, she didn't see it in him; she just sighed in that disappointed tone and _why can't you just be more like your sister?_ She told him he was being silly when he said men made him uncomfortable. Then that quiet sad look would appear and he would trail out of the room, wishing he wouldn't upset her like this.

Sometimes, Rebecca would ask him "why's mommy sad?" and the words would stick in his throat like half-chewed gummy sweets. She's stopped really calling their mother "mommy" when she was six, but whenever it came out, James knew she knew something was very wrong.

* * * *

"Excuse me, please." The sound of Steve's polite tone came quietly from behind him, but James wasn't concerned: it was the end of the day and Steve just had to get some textbook out of his locker. A big one, he'd said, big enough that it wouldn't fit in his backpack and he hadn't wanted to have to carry it around all day. James had opted to grab a can of soda from the vending machine while he waited for his best friend. 

"Fuck off, Blondie." A hard-edged voice caught James' attention. It rasped on the edge of breaking - that awkward half-deep lilt that wannabe-cool-kids pretended was intimidating. Scooping his soda can from the drop compartment, James whirled around.

Steve was standing looking tensely nervous before a group of three 8th graders, all of whom had low-hanging jeans, greasy hair and oil-shined faces with the beginning formations of clustered acne. The one in the middle, who was leaning close to Steve's locker had grisly looking braces on his teeth and limbs like a new-born giraffe. 

Steve cleared his throat a little. "I just need to get my textbook." There was a slight wobble underlying his voice and James hoped desperately that the older boys hadn't picked up on it as he had. 

"Uh, no. " Braces snorted. "I said, fuck off." One of the other two, whom had a silver ring looped through one earlobe, guffawed in the background. 

Shifting from foot to foot, Steve seemed unclear with what was the best course of action. Before he could get himself into any more trouble, James strode over and seized a handful of his best friend's hoodie sleeve, tugging him away from the situation. 

"Hey. We're not done here, kid." James ignored the voice calling behind him, until his bag was suddenly being yanked backwards and he was landing on his arse on the floor, hard. The air rushed out of him with a grunt and panting, he stared up into the metal-mangled mouth of Braces. 

A flinch jerked through his body as, abruptly, Earring was grasping his shirt and yanking him sharply to his feet. Everything seemed to be stuck on fast-forward as he blinked and found himself pinned against the lockers with Braces breathing something hot and sour over his face, the bulging metal locks behind him digging bitingly into his back. Nausea surged up through his stomach and pure panic flooded through him. Even though the boy was only two years older than him, he was surprisingly strong and held James against the lockers with practised ease. 

"Get off. Get off. _Get off._ " It took James a minute to realise the urgent too-loud voice ringing in his ears was his own. His hands seemed to function of their own accord as his mind raced endlessly. Everything seemed uncomfortably familiar. 

Shoving Braces away from him, he took off down the corridor, adrenaline surging through his veins.

* * * *

"James?"

There was a hand on his shoulder. Gentle, but firm. The hand gave a squeeze.

"James."

He became aware of a sharp coppery taste lathering his tongue, as well a raw swollen feeling in his throat. His stomach wasn't knotted, but it ached as if he'd been clenching his muscles for a really long time. There was a solid cold surface behind him and his butt was numb. His jaw length hair was brushing against his nose, which felt as sore as his stomach, and was oddly damp for some reason. Blinking his eyes open, Steve appeared in James' view; his pupils were blown wide with panic, though he seemed steady. A faint shadow of a bruise was beginning to creep in across the arch of his right cheekbone. There was a bitter acrid scent in the air. 

"Hey." Steve visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping down from their tensed state. "Do you know where you are?"

"Uhm...the toilets." James' eyes flitted across the smeary white tiles and down the dark grey plastic of the stalls. He licked his lips and they stung as the copper taste on his tongue intensified. 

Blood.

"Did I throw up?" 

"I think so. I wasn't actually in here with you to start with. You ran off and I got in a little bit behind you." Steve admitted. "Would you like some water?"

"Please." 

The cold of the metal water bottle against the smarting of his lips and the cool washing of the water down his roughened throat was both glorious and grounding. Steve, ever the doting concerned mother was peering at what James could only assume was a split eyebrow and bloodied nose. 

"How bad is it?" 

"Well, you'll have a real badass scar through your brow, probably." They both laughed, until James broke out into a gasping coughing fit from the burning in his oesophagus. 

"You just kinda seemed to lose it, to be honest." Steve hesitated. "The kid with braces was holding you there, and then next minute you were just yelling and clawing at him. He got a few hits in, himself, but then you were just running off down the corridor." 

James shifted uncomfortably; he didn't like talking about the way confrontations upset him. It was hard to know how people would react: would they brush him off, like his mom? Or would they take it really seriously and try and get some professional involved? 

"He-" James cut himself off abruptly and huffed out a breath. "Men. Violence. Fights. They- remind me of my dad, sometimes." The words came out in short bursts, like he was physically forcing them out. 

Steve looked at him thoughtfully for a moment then nodded. "Okay. What can I do to help?"

**4**

If Middle School was stressful, then High School was like trying to get away with a murder that a shit-ton of police officers saw you commit. And on top of that, Steve had gotten a fucking _boyfriend._ James wasn't entirely sure what he thought of Tony Stark; he was the son of the famous and fucking wealthy scientist/inventor/engineer Howard Stark and Steve had met him when they'd joined the High School in freshman year. It had taken them until their junior year to stop suppressing their emotions and actually sort their shit out and admit their feelings for each other. To be completely honest, Tony was an egotistical, self-centred prick with a fuck load of issues, but he also seemed to make Steve happy, which made James both confused and happy. On one hand, Tony seemed utterly wrong for Steve and James dreaded it ending in chaos and pain, but on the other hand, Tony seemed to be making Steve happy, and really that was what was most important, right?

The guy was shorter than the two of them, which was kinda funny considering how small and feeble Steve had been at 13. But then in the Summer before they started Freshman year, he'd started hitting the gym (and enticing James to come with him). He'd hit a growth spurt right around then as well, making him actually a little taller than James, that was still somehow disconcerting. Tony seemed to always be wearing something designer and regularly came into school in an expensive-looking suit: James wasn't sure if he was just trying to show off his money, or if it was something else. No matter what he was wearing, he constantly it with a pair of black Ray bands. And then there was the fucking _car.  
_

James looked up from picking with disinterest at his ham and salad sandwich and watched Steve trying to shove a carton of fries under Tony's nose, who was pouring over some textbook, making incoherently scribbled notes in a dog-eared notebook. Sighing, he glanced at his phone: there was almost twenty minutes left of lunch-break and then his two afternoon lessons. Too fucking long, if you asked him. 

That was the other thing: Steve and Tony were so different in personality. Steve was as studious as ever; the teacher's pet, if you will, in everything. Tony was pretty damn bright, and a genius when it came to science and engineering, but if it didn't benefit him in any way, or wasn't inline with his interests, then he gave absolutely two shits about it. 

"Tony, c'mon. You need to eat something." Steve's commanding voice drew him out of the depth of his thoughts.

"Or do I?" Tony's voice was dripping with sarcasm and it made James' insides boil with anger when he heard it. Yes, okay, he got it that Tony gave no importance to self-preservation, but he didn't shouldn't just brushoff someone that cared about him so much. 

A frown creased Steve's brow and he opened his mouth to argue back. 

"I'm going to head to class." James shoved his still-full lunchbox into his bag and stood swiftly before his best friend could speak; when they argued, they really argued and James didn't like it much anyway, but he really wasn't in the mood for it today. 

Steve's expression of frustration turned to one of confusion. "But lunch doesn't end for at least fifteen minutes." 

Knots twisted into James' stomach at the disappointment that tinged Steve's voice. "I'm heading to the toilet first." 

"I'll come with you." Steve rushed to grab his waterbottle from the table.

James sighed and immediately regretted it as he heard the irritation leaking into it. "I can go for a piss on my own, Steve." His best friend promptly faltered and slowly put his bottle back on the table.

"O-Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course." Steve let out a quiet laugh that sounded forced. "I'll see you later then." He turned back to the table and the knots twisted into swollen knots, but he just swallowed and left the lunch hall. 

* * * *

James had been having a bad day. Okay it had been a setup of a bad weekend that had led to an even worse Monday, if he was truly admitting it. He wasn't even sure what had triggered everything - sometimes it was like that and it was so fucking _annoying._ On Saturday, he'd been defensive and difficult all day, to the point where he'd gotten in a fight with his mom, which never happened. They always got along. It had been difficult to sleep that night with the _thudthudthud_ inside his skull and he'd woken up jumpy and anxious. Now, he was almost a mix of the two: grumpy and twitchy. In his peripherals he could see Steve's rigidly tense form and knew his best friend was blaming himself after their little disagreement on Friday. 

"You sure you're okay?" Steve sounded as if he saw James as a bear trap with freshly sharpened teeth, about to snap shut and tear him open at any moment. 

"Yes, Steve. I'm just tired, okay?" He forced the words out through gritted teeth, reminding himself that his best friend was just concerned and wasn't trying to be annoying. 

"Woah. What crawled up your ass and died?" Tony planted his shoulder into the locker beside James, who was digging through his in search of a long lost textbook, before sucking noisily on an oversized plastic cup of iced coffee. 

James slammed the locker shut and glared at the smaller boy. "Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

Tony rolled his eyes and straightened up. "Well I coulda told you that." He gave a wide sarcastic gesture with his iced coffee as he spoke and James stepped sharply towards him, his body moving in a threatening jerk.

Thinking fast, Steve stepped between the pair and pushed them both back decisively, but not unkindly. Looking back and forth between them, his face held a stern expression - the one he wore when he wasn't in the mood for taking anyone's shit.

"Tony, stop antagonising James. You can clearly tell he's not in the space for it."

The shorter boy let out an exasperated noise and gestured exaggeratedly. "But-" 

Steve, ignored him and turned instead to his best friend. "James, I get it that you're feeling touchy, but just try and ignore Tony, alright?" 

James huffed and scowled: it weirdly irked him that Steve wasn't taking his side. He knew it was selfish of him and that realistically, Steve wasn't taking Tony's side either, but still, it sat uncomfortably in his mind. 

* * * *

Out of the pair of them, Steve was the one that could drive. Yes, James did want to learn, but he wanted to wait until whatever it was that made him so twitchy all the time had passed; the last thing he wanted was to end up doing something stupid because he'd been freaking out about an insignificant something. To be fair, it was nice that Steve could at least drive, because it meant that they didn't have to walk, catch the bus, or get a lift everywhere. The freedom was glorious. Especially as they could visit their favourite little roadside diner whenever they wanted. After asking permission from James, Steve had taken Tony there on a date, and now they three were meant to be going there after school. 

James was leaning back against the side of Steve's Chevrolet Camaro '69 (he'd saved up since he was 13 for that car, and then redone it up after he'd bought it from a crappy little dealership). Steve had warned him at lunch that he'd probably be a little late out, but the sun was casting a pleasurable blanket of warmth down his front, so he didn't really mind. Some part of him wondered where Tony was, but he figured the dickhead had just gone to wait outside Steve's class, or something. 

"Hey! Samara Morgan!" 

Instinctively, James jerked his head to the side in the direction of the yell and sighed in irritation. Speak of the _fucking_ devil: Tony was striding towards the car, pulling his expensive-looking white phone out of his pocket as he did so. Grinning, he reached the car and wiggled his eyebrows at James.

"So...?" He asked jovially, drawing out the 'o' and flashing his obscenely straight white teeth. "What did you think of the new nickname?"

James glowered and ground his teeth together. "I didn't get it."

Tony's smile dropped for a moment, but quickly returned as he spoke. "Well then, let me so graciously educate you." Before James could stop him, the smaller boy was off talking again. "You know that horror film, the ring? The one where there's that tape and when it gets played, that creepy girl in the white dress comes crawling out the TV. Well, she's got lovely long dank greasy hair, just like _yours_." 

The taller boy knew the other was just trying to get a reaction out of him, but goddamnit it was working. 

"And let's see, her daddy was a priest who didn't treat her mommy very nice." Tony's voice had gone sour and mocking, like a parent trying to devalue their child. "Did your mommy always say yes to your daddy?"

Something inside James just _snapped_ and white-hot rage flooded like ice through his veins. Moving without thinking, he slapped the phone from Tony's grasp. They both watched as the mobile flew through the air and landed screen-down on the blacktop of the parking lot, before skittering across the loose stones. 

Tony's head snapped back towards James, his expression painted with fury, his eyes scalding into James'. 

" _Fuck you, Barnes._ " He snarled, like a threatened dog. 

Adrenaline flooded James' system, engulfing him in the instinctive need to protect himself. Then Tony was lunging at him, and he was threw his arms up, shielding his face. It divulged into something that wasn't quite a fight, but couldn't really be called anything else. The older boy had height and strength on his side, but the other had pure animosity driving his every move. 

James launched his fist forward and felt it connect with something as Tony screeched out a startled "mother _fucker_ ". There was sticky blood smeared freshly across his knuckles, but he barely paused to look as he ducked forward under a flying blow. As soon as he side stepped away from the car, Tony hurled himself forwards, tackling the other to the tarmac. James' head smacked against the solid ground and for a moment, his vision was entirely white as nausea bubbled up his throat, threatening to spill over. 

Abruptly, his view cleared and immediately he became of Tony sitting atop him, pinning down his arms with his knees and throwing punches straight at him. The air in his chest seemed to fizzle out and that suffocating sensation of panic settled over him like a weighted blanket. A lump swelled tumour-like in his throat and he felt himself gasping desperately for air.

A fish out of water, drowning in a world of air.

The panic began to surge and blister in his chest and he struggled violently under Tony's weight; he was no longer fighting out of anger; he was fighting out of pure fear. Squirming desperately, he let out a low whine. At this noise, Tony froze, his fists hanging motionless over the boy underneath him. As he seemed to become aware of James' apparent distress, he scrambled off of him and collapsed to the side, leaning back on his bloodied hands and staring wide-eyed like a spooked deer.

James rolled to his knees and curled over them as the gasps for air became hyperventilation. His lungs felt like they were burning, but at the same time, they didn't feel like they were his. It was almost like he was feeling the pain of someone very far away. The harsh pants that had been echoing in his ears had faded into low and distant thumps, along with his racing heart. Even the dull sting of the biting gravel pressing against his skin had ebbed away. He felt like he was losing control, drifting away, unable to grab onto anything and pull himself to safety. 

* * * *

"Fuck."

The whispered curse word caught his attention and James felt himself swim up through consciousness. All at once, the disagreement with Tony flooded back: the phone, the fighting, the panic... 

"Tony?" His voice came out croaky and rough, scraping like sandpaper up his raw throat. Blinking his eyes open against the bright daylight, he saw Tony crouched just in front of him, blood already beginning to dry in crisp flakes around his still oozing nose, while an oddly familiar inky bruise swelled in around his left eye. 

The boy in front of him slumped back on his heels and sighed heavily in relief. "Shitting hell." He laughed nasally through his blood-blocked nose and tipped his head forward, breaking hard. 

"Thought you'd passed out there, or something." 

James shook his head silently. "They get bad sometimes."

Tony nodded in understanding, then pulled a thoughtful face. "Do you get them often?" 

A shrug. "Yes and no. They're usually triggered by something. Male adults used to cause them when I was younger. Now, not so much. It's more just become violence." He paused then shrugged again. "More at the hands of a male, though, I guess."

"Is it PTSD?" Tony sounded cautious but genuine. 

"Maybe. Never been diagnosed. Mom always used to brush it off when I was younger." 

Tony hmmed thoughtfully. "Maybe you should go see someone about it." 

"Maybe." James agreed, chewing his lip; that had actually been on his mind for a little while. 

"Does Steve know?" 

"We've never directly talked about it, like this, but I'm pretty sure he knows at least some of it."

Another thoughtful look from Tony. "Do you think we'd be able to get cleaned up and back here before Steve gets back?" 

A laughed bubbled up James' throat. "Definitely not. Let's do it."

**5**

Being diagnosed with a Psychiatric Disorder was a weird experience. First, everything had spiralled quicker and more intensely than it ever had before, winding his nerves tighter and tighter until Rebecca has pushed him just slightly the wrong way and he'd lost it. From what his mom had told him shakily afterwards, when he'd come back to himself, curled up and rocking on the bathroom tiles, throat burning from a mixture of screaming and stomach acid, his hands digging into the flesh under his arms to stop them trembling, he'd hollered at his sister and wrecked the living room where'd they'd been sitting mindlessly watching the television. 

His mom had ended up making an appointment with the doctor after he confessed the losing control, rage fits and panic attacks had been a somewhat regular occurrence since his dad had left. She swallowed and looked at him sorrowfully and ashamed. 

"I always felt like there was something wrong. But I brushed it off and pushed it away. I told myself that you would come to me if something was wrong." She sighed and her voice dropped to a regretful whisper. "But I guess not."

After being referred to a Psychiatrist, James felt truly ripped open and left exposed and raw; he'd had to spill all the details of all the shit he'd been keeping to himself for years. The abuse, the nightmares, the discomfort, the panic attacks, the loss of control and the bitter hatred. Then came the diagnosis and the treatment. The feeling of dread that had been at a constant simmer suddenly swelled to a burning roar: the last thing he wanted was to be dumped in a Psychiatric hospital. He knew they were for the best and probably did help, but the stigma around them made icy spikes of anxiety penetrate through his stomach. 

"Therapy is a must - mindfulness and Cognitive Behaviour Therapy." Doctor Wilson paused and tapped the medical file in front of him seemingly unconsciously. "I'm reluctant to prescribe you any medication at the moment." He nodded decidedly. "Yes. For now, we'll stick with the Therapy and if in a month or so, there had been no improvement, then we'll think about some medication, okay?" When he seemed happy with the response, he smiled. "Oh, and we currently have a Youth Mental Health Support Group that we're running at the moment for the foreseeable future, if you're interested?" 

James mom looked at her son for confirmation; he didn't feel overly enthused at the time, but her expression made him nod and agree.

* * * *

The first time James met Clint was after he'd been going for a few weeks already; they'd developed a good routine wherein Steve would drop him and Tony off at the Group then collect them at the end and the three of them would go for food at their Diner. As he'd approached the Community Centre, he'd noticed an untidy blonde guy sitting on the front steps: he was wearing a pair of scuffed black jeans and a black hoodie faded to grey with use. His hair was a mess and there were scars on his face and the backs of his hands. A smouldering cigarette was clamped between his two first fingers and his hands were trembling. James pretended not to notice. The odd thing was that, James had assumed the guy was new from the fact he hadn't seen him before, yet when he came and collapsed down into a chair in the Centre and gave his short piece about his mental health issues, he didn't act like someone who hadn't been there before. 

As per usual, Holly drifted to each angsty teenager around the circle, listening to each about how their week had been. Clint had answered in a monotonous tone - he just didn't seem to care about himself or his wellbeing and something about that made his stomach twist into anxious knots.

"James," Holly said brightly, "how have you been?"

A lump swelled in his throat and he struggled to swallow it down. "Not good. Had an episode and hurt someone." The memories flashed through his mind like an old film and he cringed guiltily. 

He could barely hear her voice over the rushing in his ears but he knew she was asking who.

"Yeah. My best friend. He was trying to help. I don't know." The words came out in broken phrases, forced out through cemented teeth. His eyes flicked over towards Clint and he saw the other boy sitting slumped in his chair again, picking at his nail beds with shaking fingers. 

James felt his chest heave and something tugged funny in his lungs. Air rasped in his throat and it felt like someone had pulled a drawstring on his oesophagus, cinching it closed tight. His hands were white-knuckle gripped above his knees, trying to ground himself like his therapist had told him to. 

Fuck.

Holly was looking at his expectantly with a tinge of concern flickering behind her eyes.

"'Scuse me." He mumbled and stood abruptly with such force that his chair tipped back and cracked against the linoleum floor. 

There was a grip on his arm. Tony. Mouthing something at him. James made some twitchy gesture with his hand and hoped it would translate. 

Within a blink he was stumbling into the front foyer of the building and then towards the bathrooms; panic attacks made him throw up sometimes and throwing up out front of the Community Centre would just be plain embarrassing. Everyone would see it. 

James picked one of the end stalls and slid down the cold tiled wall, tipping his head back and relishing the piercing chill that worked to ground him while his lungs strained against his narrowed airway. Nausea ballooned in his stomach and rushed up his insides before his breakfast was reappearing in the toilet bowl besides him. He skin crawled and he wheezed violently.

Fuck.

**+1**

"We should go somewhere. Y'know, somewhere special."

James raised his and looked at Clint curiously. The other teenager was sprawled out on his bed, lying on his back with his top half dangling off the edge. His eyes lacked their usual dark circles and he was shamelessly in a short sleeve tee, his hoodie discarded on the floor. There was a jovial look in his eyes that James didn't often see - like his own, they were normally darkened and guarded with the pain of their pasts. 

"Why?" 

Clint rolled his eyes like it was obvious. "Because it's our six months together, duh." As they had continued to go to the Support Group together, they'd grown closer and despite the several mighty difficult lows including Clint's suicide attempt and intense Bipolar swings, as well as a couple of James' worst episodes ever. But they'd stuck it out and now Clint was on some decent medication plus five months clean of self-harm and just over three months clean of cigarettes (he was still working on cutting down on the energy drinks). James' Cognitive-Behaviour Therapy was really helping now and he hadn't had an episode in almost two weeks. 

"I didn't know celebrating six months was a thing." 

His boyfriend fixed him with a narrow-eyed look, but James knew it wasn't genuine. Half-teasing, he threw his hands up in the air with an exaggerated huff. 

"Fine! Where do you want to go?"

Clint just grinned like a schoolboy.

* * * *

It was fucking cliché, but something about sitting next to Clint, strapping on ice skates with already cold-burnt fingers, made his heart warm. His boyfriend had fidgeted like an excitably puppy all the way to the Snowdome; James wasn't sure if it was because he was happy to do something with the taller boy, because he was proud of himself for coming up with the idea, or because he had never gotten to go ice-skating before when he was younger. 

James was aware of Clint's questionable childhood and relationship with his parents that had led him to miss out on being able to be a kid - even more than James had - so he usually tread carefully in that area and let the other choose to bring it up himself whenever he felt comfortable enough. 

"C'mon. Hurry _up._ " Clint was on his feet by now and bouncing on the blades. .

Rolling his eyes, James replied, "gah, someone's impatient." 

The blonde-haired teen grinned all teeth. "Yep. Now hurry up." 

Clicking the last strap into place, James stood up and wriggled his feet around a bit; the skates felt oddly foreign under him but not entirely uncomfortable. They waddled carefully out to the rink and stepped onto the ice. 

"Uhm, how do we do this, exactly?" The dark haired boy suddenly realised that neither of them knew what they were doing and it could very possibly go very wrong, very easily. Besides him, Clint gestured to the other skaters wordlessly. 

After watching how the people around them were gliding along elegantly, James began to shuffle forwards, making short and stuttering movements, pushing on one foot than the other. As his boyfriend copied his movements, their hands automatically found each other, their fingers intertwining against the chill of the rink. 

* * * *

Once they'd fallen over at least fifteen times each and had their fill of the sharp air of the rink, they left the ice and swapped their skates back for their shoes, before heading out into the Starbucks off the foyer of the Snow Dome. James walked over to their table carrying a tray laden with two hot chocolates topped with whipped cream and oozing chocolate sauce, as well as a thick slab of chocolate brownie and a blueberry muffin. Clint, who had been slouched in his seat and shifting grumpily on his sore hide, suddenly perked up as the tray was set down in front of him. 

As the taller boy took his seat, Clint moved the drinks in front of them, before slicing the baked goods in half and splitting them equally onto two plates. 

"You're the best, y'know that?" 

James rolled his eyes as he took a bite out of his warm muffin half. "Oh, shush you. This whole thing was your idea in the first place."

"Well, yeah, but." Clint paused, the quietly said. "Thank you. For everything." 

A smile tugged at James' lips. "Of course, Baby. I love you." 

Leaning over, he kissed Clint softly, ignoring the way he squawked around a mouthful of brownie. 

"I love you, too." He replied, when they separated, a blush flooding across his cheeks. 


End file.
